


but I haven't healed much

by saveourtiredhearts, vibraniumkink



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Pleasant Hill, but mentally, fighting hydra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveourtiredhearts/pseuds/saveourtiredhearts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumkink/pseuds/vibraniumkink
Summary: Neither Steve nor Bucky can seem to escape from their pasts, even miles away in a house in the middle of Nowhere, New York. Maybe together, they can figure out how not to be trapped anymore.





	but I haven't healed much

**Author's Note:**

> [Wttlpwrites,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wttlpwrites/pseuds/wttlpwrites) I love you and I'm sorry. Any mistakes in this piece are completely my fault. Blame my chronic procrastination.
> 
> [Vibraniumkink,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumkink/pseuds/vibraniumkink) thank you for your beautiful work and your amazing ideas. I hope I made something that you'll enjoy.

 

After the Pleasant Hill disaster, all Steve wants to do is crawl into a hole and lie there. For days, weeks, years, decades, centuries, millennia--however long he lives this time.

The problem with healing wound after wound magically is that no one sees the scars. Steve looks perfectly healthy now, so why shouldn’t he be roaring to get back into the game?

He’s not. He’s tired of it all, an exhaustion set deep into his bones, a tiredness that aches in the back of his skull. Steve can feel it sometimes, most often now in SHIELD offices: that pounding on his head, like waves crashing against an immovable object, again and again.

So he leaves.

Steve takes his SHIELD ID card, and his shield, and his uniform, but he packs a few books too, as well as a sketchpad. He bought it at a Walgreens a month or so ago, and hasn’t touched it since, but he has some faint hope that maybe he’ll be able to bring himself to put pen to paper, for the purpose of something other than writing a report or signing his name. He gives his vacation notice to those who need to know--Sharon, Hill. They’re appropriately shocked, but he brushes them off.

Steve has a house on the outskirts of New York, brushing up against the border of Vermont, above Albany. Technically, it’s SHIELD’s house. He’s borrowing. Borrow, borrow, borrow. That’s all Steve does. Not a thing in his own name. Living on borrowed time.

Still, it’s nice to have a place to himself. He drives up on Sunday, and takes his motorcycle. 

When he gets to the house, he stops in front of the gate. The house itself is wide and white, with two stories and a garage. It’s half hidden by trees, and near a small lake. None of that captures his attention. What does is the half inch of space between the gate door and the rest of the fence.

Someone’s here.

He pulls his shield off the front of his bike, swings his legs off and hits the ground in a crouch. He pushes the gate gently, making sure it doesn’t squeak, before passing through. He didn’t tell anyone where exactly he was going. Who had beaten him here?

He inches his way across the green lawn, stepping carefully. It’s been recently trimmed, and the sweet scent of dirt and dew fills his head. Then; cigarette smoke. Steve tilts his head, draws in a deep breath. He blinks. Then, with a sigh, he swings the shield down and strides on towards the door of the house.

It’s locked. Steve knocks, a rapid one-two-three one-two-three pattern. He only has to wait a moment before the door opens.

And there’s Bucky. If Steve hadn’t smelled the cigarettes, he would’ve been surprised, but now he’s expecting the vision that appears before him. And a vision it is indeed--Bucky’s hair is tied back into a messy bun that exposes his neck. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants. His lips twitch upward when he sees Steve, an attempt at a smile that he can’t quite totally manage.

“Hey,” he says. The rough tone of his voice is soothing, like a cool hand on the heat of Steve’s forehead.

“Hey Bucky,” rejoins Steve. “Can I come in?” He doesn’t ask  _ how did you know I was going to be here  _ or  _ when did you get here  _ or  _ where did you go.  _ Bucky seems almost grateful for this--his shoulders lose some of the tension they were carrying as he steps aside, letting Steve into the foyer.

It’s small, but cozy, with a staircase to the right, and a hallway leading into a kitchen, Bucky takes him down the hallway, passing an open entrance to a living room with yellow walls and gray furniture. Steve blinks. As far as he knew, this house had next to no furniture, but the couch and loveseat and--was that a coffee table?--contradict that supposition. Steve looks at the back of Bucky’s head, noting absently the neat trim of it, even though the length is still significant. What has Bucky been doing since Steve saw him last?

The kitchen is white, with light green tile and yellow accents. On the top of the stove is a plate of brownies, cooling. The smell hits Steve and his mouth waters.

Bucky, with a small upturn to his mouth, notes his fixation. “Want one?” he asks. 

As if Steve would say no.

 

Bucky provides answers for some of Steve’s unspoken questions once the two of them are sitting around the kitchen table. Steve has already finished his brownie, one that Bucky baked. Bucky’s ease in the kitchen doesn’t come as surprise, but just seeing Bucky at the counter still gives Steve a warm feeling in the center of his chest. He can’t stop himself from leaning towards Bucky, even as he moves around the kitchen, wanting to be just that much closer to him. He doesn’t know what’s happening here, but Bucky looks happy. In the moment, he can at least be grateful for that.

“I need time,” Bucky explains. His mouth is set in a little frown, his forehead tightened up so that wrinkles form. Steve wants to put his thumb against them, rub them out of existence. “After Pleasant Hill--Hydra got too close. I can’t be exploited by Hydra again. Or anyone else, for that matter,” he adds after a brief pause.

Steve nods. He can understand that. He simultaneously seems to have too much time and a dearth of it--an unfortunate paradox he can't quite escape from.

With bright light pouring through the window, and Bucky’s face before him, it's a little easier to believe he might.

He looks thoughtful, and beautiful, standing in the midst of the blue and white kitchen, late afternoon sunlight striking across the right side of his face. His lips form a pout, his eyes dart sideways and down.

Steve looks away, his throat suddenly dry. He swallows hard, hears the click of his tongue against the top of his mouth like a gun, or the crack of a whip.

“How’d you even get here?” he finds himself asking. “How did you know this house was mine?”

Bucky shrugs, and easy lift and drop of the shoulders. “Had access to your SHIELD files. I’ve kind of been looking out for you since I first was able to.” 

_ That could mean any length of time, really,  _ Steve thinks. 

“They have a list of your safehouses.”

“Not all of them,” interrupts Steve. “I’m not an idiot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Never said you were.” Steve has actually been finding the absence of insults disconcerting. Their conversations used to be full of them. 

“So, you came here.”

“Didn’t know you were coming.” Bucky turns back to the sink. He picks up a pan that makes a loud clang as it hits against the ceramic edges. 

“Would you have come if--” Steve starts, but then shies away from the question. He clears his throat, tries again. “I guess I needed a break too. To get away from everything, all the craziness.”

“The world sure ain’t what it used to be. Remember Brooklyn?”

“Of course I remember Brooklyn.” It’s never easy when either of them brings up the past. “Two idiot kids.”

“Do you wish you could go back?” It’s said bluntly. Now it’s Steve’s turn to shrug. He’s had the thought many times, too often to count, and he’s never settled on a satisfactory answer. 

“We’ve been through so much. Even if we could go back, would we be the people we were back then, in that same time? Or would we be us, in that time? Neither sounds like an appropriate solution.”

Bucky snorts. “Where’d you pick that one up, a book of quotes?” His tone is hesitantly teasing, with a hint of warmth that makes Steve’s toes curl. Bucky finally sticks the pan into the dishwasher, and turns to face Steve. “Sometimes I don’t see how I’m ever going to form myself into being a functional somebody again.”

Steve knows what he means. “Time,” he offers, and then, “I got that advice from the Internet.”

Bucky lets out a genuine chuckle at that. “Punk,” he says, shaking his head.

And as much as Steve can feel exhaustion through every inch of his body, Bucky’s laughter lets him turn the corners of his mouth up. “Jerk.”

 

Steve takes a shower in the bathroom upstairs. The whole house is ocean themed, (bizarre seeing as they're more near a lake), and the bathroom is no different. The clock is shaped like a ship’s wheel, seashell shaped soap, and blue-green paint covering the walls. Steve’s eye is particularly drawn to the small painting of stormy seas. He stands naked in the middle of blue tile and ignores the mirror for the picture. He can see the lighting boiling in the clouds, and the thrash of water had him tasting salt on his tongue.

The shower and bath are separate. Steve ignores the tub for the opaque glass door, and is blessed by hot water and perfect pressure. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. What is he doing here?

About an hour later, Steve exits the bathroom and goes to find Bucky. He starts to get worried after he calls “Bucky!” several times, but he finally looks out the porch doors and sees him.

Bucky’s standing on the wood porch, hands dropped by his sides, staring out at the sunset. He's unnaturally still, a skill learned long ago and practiced often. Steve imagines that if he could see Bucky’s front, Bucky wouldn't even be blinking. Steve steps out into the warm night air, and carefully shuts the door behind him. It closes with a small clack.

“Steve,” says Bucky. He doesn't turn.

“I was wondering--which bedroom is mine?”

“How long are you staying?”

Steve doesn't see why that matters. It's not like this is Bucky’s house. It's not like Bucky’s going to be here for a while. Neither of them could ever really tear themselves away from a fight. Why should now, when the whole world needs them, be any different? “Not sure,” he finally answers.

Bucky nods, turns, and brushes past him back into the house. The ease that had come between them in the kitchen has dissipated now. They pass a painting in the hallway, as they wind their way up to the second floor. Steve recognizes the brushstrokes. It's the same artist as the one in the bathroom, but this is of an abandoned shack on a beach somewhere. What Steve imagines to be the same storm lurks overhead. The painting is crooked, so Steve touches the corner to fix it.

It only takes a moment, this noticing and adjusting, but when Steve goes to follow Bucky, Bucky’s already standing next to an open door. “This is yours,” he says. “I mean, if you want it. There’s another bedroom besides the room I'm using, but I figured you'd want this one. It's got a big window. More natural light.”

Steve peeks in. There is a big window, complete with window seat and shades. The walls are white, and the room is done up in tones of pastel blue and light gray.

“What color scheme is your room?” He asks Bucky, half-jokingly.

“Hot pink with bright purple,” says Bucky immediately. When Steve just stares, his lips curl up. “Looks pretty much exactly like this one except I've got some yellow too. And an en suite bathroom instead of a big window.”

“Moving up in the world,” Steve observes, a grin threatening. “You answered like you had thought about it.”

Bucky snorts. “Really, who designed the interior of this place? It certainly wasn't you.”

Steve shrugs, and a sudden heaviness returns to his shoulders. “Someone SHIELD hired, probably. I dunno.”

Bucky squints at him but nods, accepting. There's silence between them for a moment.

“I'm going to grab my bag and head to bed,” Steve says, breaking the quiet. “I guess I'll see you in the morning?”  _ Stupid. Where else would he be? _

Bucky smiles, a small thing. “Yeah,” he says. “See you in the morning, Stevie.”

 

Steve wakes up to the scent of bacon and the sound of water. He yawns, stretches out, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Slowly, he makes his way to the kitchen, not bothering to change out of his t-shirt and boxers. 

“When did you learn to cook?” he asks jokingly as he enters. This time, Bucky’s in an apron, a spatula in his metal hand. He’s flipping a pancake and humming under his breath, and Steve’s chest tightens. He looks at Bucky’s long, lean back, covered by a shirt, and wants to come up behind him and--

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other,” says Bucky. “I’ve learned some things.” It could’ve been a joke, if not for Bucky’s flat voice. Steve drops his eyes to the floor, uncomfortably reminded of the distance still between him and the man he’s always seen as his best friend. 

Steve walks around to where Bucky’s standing. He intends to offer help, but gets sidetracked when he notices the bags under Bucky’s eyes. They’re dark and deep and purple, almost as if each was a deep wound the serum was having trouble curing. 

“Did you sleep last night?” he asks.

The answer comes quickly. It’s short and blunt. “No.” 

Steve breathes in, out. “Have you been sleeping?”

There’s a small hesitation from Bucky. “I’m sleeping better now than I have before.

It’s not quite an answer, but Bucky lifts the pancake out of the pan and flops it down onto a plate already covered with them. “Sit,” he demands, and joins Steve at the table. “Did you sleep alright?”

Steve goes to answer ‘yes’ immediately, but then pauses to take stock. He did sleep through the night. And yet, he still feels exhausted. Like the sleep has invaded his bones and muscles. Usually he would go for a run in the morning, but he barely feels up to it. He just woke up and he wants to lie down again.

Steve doesn’t like this feeling. He wants to chalk it up to pure physical exhaustion, but the last fight he was in was at Pleasant Hill, and that was at least two full weeks ago. The serum works quickly. Yet he can’t get rid of this feeling of weight that hangs on him.

“I slept,” he finally says. Bucky’s response is a wry, knowing grin.

They sit in comfortable companionship for the rest of the meal. The pancakes are delicious, and Steve lets Bucky know. Bucky actually flushes, brushes off the compliment, but looks the tiniest bit pleased. When they finish, Bucky sweeps the plates away and begins to clatter around the kitchen, cleaning. For a minute or so, Steve watches him, at a loss for what to do.

_ Vacation,  _ he thinks.  _ Relaxation.  _ He heads into the living room. There’s a TV but Steve is reluctant to sit and partake. Instead of just exhaustion, now there’s a buzz running through his veins, like that burst of adrenaline you get when you’re so tired you’re hysterical.

Bucky comes in to find Steve still standing up, drumming his fingers against the back of the couch. Steve has already noted that the couch is paisley blue and the room is themed as the rest of the house is. He’s eyeing the bookshelves with trepidation when Bucky lays cool fingers over his own.

Steve has to strangle the urge to jump, and just turns swiftly instead. “Bucky,” he says, more for reassurance than anything else.

Bucky gives him a small smile. “There’s a small town not too far from here,” he offers. Steve just blinks. “We need groceries.”

“Oh,” says Steve, and then catches on. “Oh! Do you want to go now?”

Bucky nods firmly. “Yes. You brought your motorcycle.”

“I did,” Steve says. “Do you not have--” He stops, because Bucky’s shaking his head. “How did you get here?”

Bucky looks to his left, out the window of the living room. “Walked,” he answers gruffly, and doesn’t say from where. “C’mon, I want to get there as soon as possible.” He turns and goes to the front door, slipping on his shoes.

Steve breathes out, and lets it go. Bucky’s not telling him everything, but to be fair, he’s not telling Bucky much either. He wonders for a split second how many secrets they’re keeping from each other, and with a slight grimace, lets the thought go.

“I don’t suppose you have a credit card,” says Bucky from the front door, looking hopeful. “I only have cash and people look at you strangely when you only pay in fifties and hundreds.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, choosing to simply grab his wallet and hustle out the front door.

 

The motorcycle ride is hell.

Why? Because of Bucky’s arms around him, his hands that shift from hipbones to stomach to chest, his hot breath on the back of Steve’s neck. Steve almost stumbles off the bike when he pulls into a parking space. 

“You alright?” says Bucky, placing the helmet on the handlebars. Steve swallows thickly, watched Bucky’s long black hair shine in the sunlight.

“Yeah, he says hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Bucky considers him for a long moment, before stepping forward to take Steve’s helmet off his head. He gets very close. Steve’s breath hitches.

The moment is broken by a car racing down the street, the only one in the midst of an empty town. Bucky returns the helmet to the bike. “There’s a farmer’s market on Sundays,” he says, apropos of nothing.

Steve squints down the main road, but there’s nothing there. Obviously, it’s not Sunday. “How do you know that?”

Instead of answering, Bucky gives him his patented, ‘don’t be an idiot Steve’ look, and starts marching off down the street.

“Wait,” says Steve, feeling anxious. He stretches an arm out, like that’s going to stop him. He doesn’t know exactly what to say. How long has Bucky been living here? The Pleasant Hill disaster was two weeks ago, but perhaps Bucky has been here before. Unless he asks, Steve will never know. He has many questions, and no answers. 

Bucky ahsn’t stopped walking, so Steve calls out again. “The grocery store is right there.” He gestures behind himself. 

“I know,” Bucky calls back, slowing his stride for a moment. “But I want to take you somewhere else first.”

Steve catches up to Bucky quickly, and they approach a small cart at the end of the block. A dark-skinned female stands behind the counter, a hat tipped jauntily over her face and a broad smile. The banner reads  _ HOMEMADE ICE CREAM. _

Words trip surely out of Bucky’s tongue. Steve recognizes the language as Spanish, and can understand some, but not all of what Bucky’s saying. There was definitely a joke in there somewhere, for the woman laughs and replies with that stunning grin still stretching her mouth wide. Bucky hands over a few crumpled dollar bills, and the woman starts to scoop the ice cream into small waffle cones.

“Spanish?” says Steve, less of a question than a statement.

“And Swedish and German and French and Swahili and Latin and whatever the hell else Hydra could stuff into my head,” Bucky replies bitterly. “It may be useful now, but I sure as shit hated when they ‘conditioned’ me to know it all.”

Steve doesn’t have a good response. He feels a little sick, but he takes the ice cream anyway. Vanilla for him, strawberry for Bucky.

They lick their ice cream as they walk back up the block, both saying a quick goodbye to the ice cream lady. ‘Adios’ at least, is one of the words Steve knows, so he doesn’t feel impolite or wrongfooted when he says it. He feels very unstable, has been feeling very unstable, so the warmth of Bucky against his side and the texture of the waffle cone in his hand help to keep him grounded.

They’re about halfway down the block when it happens. Two teenage boys run past, laughing and shouting something incomprehensible. The first avoids them successfully, but the second stumbles and slams his body into Bucky’s before getting control over his feet again and racing after his friend. 

The hit makes Bucky stagger backward and as he regains his balance, he growls and lunges forward. It’s only Steve’s hand around his wrist that stops him from going after the boys. Steve grips Bucky’s arm as hard as he can and uses the momentum of Bucky’s failed charge to force Bucky up against the wall.

They’re as close as they were when Bucky took off Steve’s helmet, but Steve feels only fear, worry and anger in this moment. “Are you crazy/” he manages to get out.

“Fucking--let me go--” spits Bucky, struggling in Steve’s grasp. His eyes roll from side to side, and he goes dramatically limp for a moment. “The mission,” he whispers, and then he’s back to thrashing about.

“He’s a kid! What are you doing?”

“You don’t know that, you don’t know--they’re everywhere, they found me before so they can find me again--you don’t know--”

“No, I don’t,” Steve says, trying to speak calmly through his terror and overwhelm Bucky’s distress. “But without proof--”

“What is this, a court of justice? Captain America, oh say can you see, the land of the free and the home of the brave,” mocks Bucky, grinding the words out. “Let. Me. Go.”

“What has gotten into you?” Steve finally shouts. He pulls away from Bucky, clutches his own arm to his chest with his other hand. “What--” His voice trembles. He feels tremendously tired again, everything all drained out after this...fight. Altercation. Shakily, Steve thinks,  _ If I can’t deal with this, what can I deal with? Certainly not anything on the level of world-threatening disaster. _

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Bucky pushes off the wall, crosses his arms, and refuses to look at Steve. Steve doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it, and can only watch dumbfounded as Bucky walks away. Towards the grocery store. As if nothing had happened.

In the grocery store, in the frozen foods aisle, Bucky finally speaks. “The paranoia is eating away at me,” he says. He doesn’t need to say what he’s scared of--the Hydra is implied.

Steve understands and shivers, suddenly feeling eyes on him from all around. He looks up, catches the all-seeing eye of a security camera, and refocuses on Bucky, who’s staring at the packs of peas. No more words are spoken except to discuss what food they need, and the conversation with the employee at the register.

 

Back at home--at the Sea House, as Steve is privately calling it--they unpack the groceries, loading dried pasta into the cabinets and milk into the fridge. It’s not much more than enough to last a week, considering the rate at which Bucky and Steve eat. Steve estimates that they ate maybe seven pancakes each that very morning. 

Steve reaches down to slide a bag of chips next to a bag of pretzels when it suddenly hits. The bag crinkles in his grip. Steve feels a deep slow sadness wash over him, like sinking under a wave in the ocean. Coming out of nowhere, a rainfall that’s kicked up and fallen hard. His hands tremble, falter with the plastic bag before Steve gets them in their proper place. He can feel Bucky watching him closely all of a sudden. Neither of the two men say a word. It feels like a common occurrence, this silence. Steve worries that it’s permanent.

 

At noon, as the sun just starts to sink over the sky, Steve goes for the run he missed this morning. He doesn’t particularly want to, the strange heaviness weighing down on his feet, but he knows he should. And he does. The moment he steps onto the sidewalk, his feet fly, pounding the sad ache in the middle of his chest into the ground. He runs to town and back, and tastes salt all the way. Steve tries to use to run to burn out the weight in his bones, but returns sweating to the front door of the Sea House with twenty pound weights around his neck rather than fifty. Still, any improvement is good.

He walks in to find Bucky sitting on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a dark blue blanket and staring at the TV. On the screen is some sort of nature documentary.

“I’ll be right back,” says Steve, uncertain of his welcome. Bucky nods, seemingly entranced by the Arctic expanse being shown. Steve goes upstairs to shower quickly, and changes into pajamas before returning to the couch. For a split second, he considers digging out the small sketchbook he buried at the bottom of his traveling bag. In the end though, he doesn’t.

“Did you know this guy can’t say penguins?” says Bucky when Steve returns. Steve blinks in surprise, then shakes his head. He comes around to sit gingerly on the other side of the couch, resting against the arm as Bucky is. He cocks his head and listens for a moment. Bucky is right.

In the quiet of the room, Steve thinks about the weariness he feels, the blank face Bucky still wears as a mask to hide his fear. He thinks about how they’re both holding back, letting things go unsaid because they don’t know how to say them. He thinks about how Hydra has pervaded their lives, turned them inside out, made two friends who once were each other’s everything into perfect strangers. Steve aches with a mental sort of pain, inside and out. He was going to use this house as an escape, but with Bucky there--there’s not taking himself away from all of the world. Steve can’t go where he sometimes wants to go if Bucky’s going to stay behind.

For a moment, Steve thinks about going back to SHIELD in the morning. He could do it. They want him back as soon as possible. He’s an asset.

_ No,  _ Steve finally decides.  _ No, not yet.  _ He looks over at Bucky, wondering inanely if Bucky has felt the waves of Steve’s conclusion.

But Bucky remains unchanged, still curled up and wide-eyed. Steve lets his gaze linger, knowing there’s a strong possibility Bucky can tell he’s staring. He does it anyway, looks at Bucky’s face and thinks about how much he wants to touch him.

Eventually, the two of them go to bed. Separately.

 

There’s no bacon in the morning, because halfway through the night, a scream tears through the silence of the house. Steve shoots bolt upright in bed, and flicks on the lights. As he does so, the terrifying wail dies into whimpers, still audible.

Steve scrambles out of bed hastily, and jogs down the hallway, only to find the door of Bucky’s room locked. He places a hand on the wood, then presses his ear against it.

Bucky’s sobbing. Short hiccupping breaths and gasps. “Bucky?” Steve calls, and the noise abruptly stops. “Hey. You want to let me in?”

There’s a pause long enough that Steve begins to step away from the door, shoulders sagging. But then the doorknob jiggles, and the door swings inwards.

Bucky stands there, covered in shadows. There’s no light in his room, but Steve doesn't necessarily need the light to see. He can tell that Bucky’s hair is loose, that he’s wearing a t-shirt and long pajama pants, and that he’s scared.

“Steve,” Bucky rumbles, and practically falls into Steve’s arms. Steve catches him, feels the warmth of his body and the small patch of wetness that forms when Bucky shoves his head onto Steve’s shirt.

They stand in the midst of the doorway for a while. Then Bucky grabs onto the collar of Steve’s shirt and drags him inside. They end up on the floor, criss-cross and facing each other, with Bucky’s hand still on Steve’s chest.

“Hydra fucked me up,” Bucky says, slow and raspy. Steve opens his mouth to speak, but Bucky gives him a look. “They fucked me up Steve, real bad, no doubt about it. And I’m still fucked up. They tortured me. They basically conditioned me to be this entirely new person. As much of a brave face as I put on…” He swallows. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal again.”

“I don’t want yo to be normal,” Steve protests.

“I don’t care what you want,” says Bucky, but gently. “It’s not about what you want. Trying to recover all these years has taught me that at least. I want to be normal. It’s not going to happen. I’m probably always going to be looking over my shoulder for the next attack, or forward for the next war. Don’t lie to me and tell me that’s not what you’ve been doing all these years.” Steve doesn’t say a word. “I’m probably always going to have nightmares. I think it’s finally time to try and figure out who I can be and what exactly I want, instead of just saying ‘normal’.”

Steve is quiet for a moment. He lays a hand over Bucky’s. The metal is cold to the touch. “That’s a good goal.”

“I feel trapped by Hydra,” whispers Bucky. “Sometimes I just dream about being awake while I’m in the cryotube, watching the faces of Hydra agents pass by, knowing I can’t get out. I can’t do anything.”

“Bucky,” says Steve, helpless. Bucky looks away. Steve takes a deep breath. “This is nothing like what you’ve gone through,” he starts. “But I feel trapped too. By SHIELD, by Hydra, by the world.” This is nothing like what Bucky’s been through, but Steve thinks Bucky understands what he’s getting at here--that they’re both trapped, and maybe they can help each other be who they need (or want) to be. “There’s a role I have to play, and sometimes I’m not up to it.” He sighs. Bucky’s eyes latch onto his. “I haven’t been up to it for a while.”

“No,” says Bucky softly. “Neither have I.”

“Can we heal from this?” Steve wonders out loud. He wants a real answer, one he’s not sure either of them have.

Bucky smiles a bit. “I think we’ve already started.” He leans forward, rests his head on Steve’s chest, right beside their interlocked hands. Steve lifts up his other hand and strokes the long locks of Bucky’s hair.

“I don’t like this ending,” he confesses. “I still need to fight, to make the world better. More equal. More what it needs to be.”

“So this isn’t the end,” replies Bucky, voice muffled. “We take some time off. We get back to work, but this time we don’t just fight for others, we fight for ourselves too.”

“I picked working for SHIELD because they hate Hydra as much as I do. We need the information from them to fight evil, to persevere.”

“We can keep doing that, Steve, I swear,” says Bucky, head coming up. “But I think we’ve been doing that without any real sense of where we, our own selves, are headed. Isn’t that important too?”

Steve swallows, looks hard and steady at Bucky’s face in the dark. “I want a future with you,” he says bravely. “After SHIELD, when we decide we’re done, I want to come back to you.”

Bucky smiles, the first full grin Steve’s seen on his face for months, years. “You won’t have to come back to me, because I’ll be right there beside you. We’ll find a future together.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice is no louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t matter, because Bucky is right there. “That sounds good.”

 

They sleep in the same bed that night. In the morning, Steve wakes up to not the smell of bacon, or screaming, or even birds, but to Bucky’s face, bathed in sunlight.

“Hi,” says Steve, smiling dorkily. Bucky blinks at him, slow and sleepy, then leans in and kisses him.

“Hi,” he replies.

On the wall, there’s a painting, and Steve manages to get the smallest glimpse as Bucky shifts so that he’s on top of Steve. It’s of a beach, the water stretching out forever, and a brilliant sun rising in a cloudless sky. 

“Hey,” says Bucky. “What are you looking at?” But he’s smiling again.

“You,” Steve says, and leans up to kiss him again.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> There miiiiight be a coda after this, I'm not too thrilled with the ending. 
> 
> As always, my[tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/yourblueeyedboys)


End file.
